‘She’s been in the water for some time. Probably since nine or ten o’clock last night. I’ll need to do a more extensive examination, but it appears that she has a fractured skull.’

Palmer leant down to get a closer look at the body. ‘I don’t know how you boys can tell that. Apart from being dead, she looks in good nick, to me.’

‘That’s why I’m in forensics and you’re a copper,’ the man laughed.

‘I can’t say at this stage what caused the fracture – whether it’s as the result of a blow to the head, or from a fall. I also can’t be certain if that is what killed her, until I get her back to the lab.’ The technician bent down and carefully removed some of the hair from around the woman’s neck. ‘And, see here, these marks on her neck …’ The statement was self-explanatory.

‘Give me something more,’ Palmer pleaded.

‘How about this?’ The forensic investigator held up a bag containing a soaking wet purse. ‘We found it in the deceased’s pocket.’

‘Bingo!’ Palmer clapped his gloved hands together. ‘We have a name.’

‘We do. She might look like she was homeless, but my bet is that this belongs to her. She also had a mobile phone in her pocket. We’ll do our best to retrieve everything that was on it.’

‘If you had to hazard a guess?’ Palmer was not going to let his colleague off the hook.

‘I’d say misadventure is unlikely. She looks too old to be a student, mucking about on the river, besides, why has no one reported it? Either she ended up falling off a bridge, alone, or someone did this to her. My professional opinion is the latter.’

Palmer nodded gravely. ‘That’s what I thought. Send the report over as soon as you have it. I need to start looking at CCTV. The joys of the job.’ Palmer left the tent, dreading the day ahead.

At precisely 7.32am, Shirley’s mobile phone rang, waking her from her slumber. Daylight poured in through the cheap, thin curtains and she squinted against the bright light, fumbling on her bedside table for the phone. Before checking the name on the screen, she picked up, irritated at being woken.

‘Yes,’ her hoarse, sleepy voice travelled down the line.

‘Shirl, it’s Dean, ’ave you seen Mum?’ The young man could tell that he’d woken his mother’s friend, but felt no reason to apologise.

‘Dean. Why are you calling me at this time?’ She rolled over onto her back, clutching the phone to her ear, aware that Grant, her husband, had not come to bed.

‘She ain’t here.’

‘So?’ Shirley groaned, rolling onto her side again and shutting her eyes.